


No Work and All Play

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, F/M, No Redeeming Value Whatsoever, PWP, other than smutty smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Tumblr challenge about Oliver/Felicity arguing and angry sex, combined with manipulated pic on Tumblr of "Oliver" and "Felicity" on a beach, and then... this happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Work and All Play

**Author's Note:**

> Anon said: _I wanna take you up on your bet of whether or not you could write Olicity arguing for about 1500 words. But i raise you writing smut afterwards. Because imo, to Oliver, nothing is hotter than an angry Felicity. Plus angry sex is just the hottest._ So this is actually like 1,800 words of fighting, and then like another 1,800 words of smut. I’m… sorry? ;)
> 
> THANKS: to youguysimserious and jomarchfwf. <3 <3 <3
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Pretty sure DC and Warner Bros. would be pretty sad about this.

Felicity stills, the sliding door separating their cabana from the bright, sunshine-y beach partially open, and tilts her head. She’s hoping that if she just gives it a minute, the words that Oliver just said will maybe rearrange themselves into something that _doesn’t_ make her furious. Because she was _supposed_ to be headed out onto the beach with Oliver for some relaxing downtime, but if she heard him correctly, she’s pretty sure they’re going to be fighting instead.

“Felicity?”

Yup, she’s pissed. She whirls around to face him. “You said we’d do _what_?”

Her fury kicks up a notch when she lets herself take in his appearance. Which is a mistake, because Casual Vacationing Oliver -- the plain blue board shorts, the worn t-shirt, the sunglasses, and, _God_ , can that man wear sunglasses -- this Oliver is her kryptonite. If she wanders too close to Casual Vacationing Oliver, she melts into a lustful puddle, and at the moment, she’s so angry with him she’s pretty sure her left eye is twitching. 

So it’s really not fair for him to be dressed like that while simultaneously pissing her off.

“Felicity,” he says, taking a step closer, “not _we_. Me,” he corrects, like that’s actually _better_. “I said I’d do it since we’re already here.”

“We’re in _Uruguay_ ,” Felicity points out. “Surrounded by miles of peaceful shoreline, and you’re going to--”

“It’s not dangerous,” he interrupts, and she thinks his tone is meant to be placating or reassuring, but it scrapes across her skin and feels more than a little patronizing. Because the potential danger is _so_ not what is making her angry at the moment. Oliver shrugs at the very idea, regardless, because he is still too cavalier with his own safety, which drives Felicity up the wall. “It’s a little recon,” he explains. “It’ll just take a few hours and--”

“A few hours,” she interrupts fiercely, loud voice in full effect, “out of our _honeymoon_ , Oliver!”

He actually looks contrite for about 2.8 seconds. Then he crosses his arms. “Bad guys don’t really take vacations,” he points out, “so it’s--”

“Actually, they _do_ ,” she shoots back, “or they wouldn’t buy all of those _private islands_ and _Swiss chalets_ and _tacky penthouse apartments in Vegas hotels_. Bad guys probably take _more_ vacations than regular working stiffs. And they _definitely_ take more vacations than heroes with secret identities involving very demanding day jobs.” Because that last thing? True. So true. Felicity hasn’t had five consecutive days off since… God, she can’t even _remember_. 

So this was supposed to be their first real vacation. Their first opportunity to actually relax and not stress about all of the chaos in Starling and just... _be together_.

Oh, and have a lot of sex. A _lot_ of really satisfying, married sex. Because their wedding was pretty great -- an intimate affair with less than fifty people and a lovely blend of traditions. Great, and also kind of exhausting and stressful, because it was for the two of them, but it was also for her mom and for Thea, and for all the people that couldn’t be there.

But this honeymoon is just for them. Just for sex and sunshine and lazy dinners and sex and probably a little sunburning unless she’s really careful and _sex_.

So Felicity is _not happy_ that her plans are being derailed because her newly minted husband is a damn workaholic. Which probably isn’t even the right word, since this is dangerous hero-related stuff and not regular work stuff? Does that make him a hero-aholic? Doesn’t really flow off the tongue in the way it should, but whatever. 

“That might be true,” Oliver shrugs off her point with careless inattention. “But criminal enterprises don’t have vacation time. They don’t shut down for the holidays, and they certainly don’t take eleven days off to celebrate our marriage.”

She glares at him. “Apparently, neither do we,” she points out, more than a little bitterly. Because she doesn’t expect him to put her first in all things. She understands his life, and his commitment to helping people. Hell, that’s at least half the reason she fell in love with him, so it’s not like she was expecting him to reprioritize his whole life around her.

Except for during their _damn honeymoon_ , which Felicity thinks is a perfectly reasonable expectation. 

“Felicity,” he says, and she swears if he says her name _one more time_ in that cajoling tone, she will not be responsible for her actions. He lifts his hand, reaching for her, but she takes a step back, holding her palm out.

Because she’s furious, sure, but she’s still irritatingly susceptible to _him_. And angry-sex is not going to solve this particular problem. “Oliver,” she grits out, “we’ve been married less than 48 hours, and about 17 of those hours were spent on planes. We’ve had married sex once, and--”

“Twice,” he interrupts, the edge of his mouth quirking up in a decidedly smug way.

Felicity narrows her eyes at him. But, fine-- “We’ve had married sex _twice_ and you’re--”

“Though,” he interrupts, edging closer and looking even _more_ smug, “I think we should probably acknowledge that you actually came four times.” He tilts his head in pretend confusion. “Or, wait -- was it _five_ times?”

She puts her palms in the middle of his chest and pushes him away. “ _So_ not the point!” 

He barely moves, of course, and then flashes that stupid, charming grin of his. “Sex isn’t the point of a honeymoon?” 

Oliver lets his gaze drag down her body, and she’s acutely aware that the semi-sheer coverup she’s wearing shows quite a bit of her body. And her bikini. The deep maroon bikini that she bought for this trip because Thea said, “Daaaaaaaaaaaamn, girl!” in the dressing room when Felicity tried it on. The bikini that she bought because she’s been training with Diggle for a couple of years, and if she’s not _totally_ confident in her body, she’s at least confident that _this_ bikini looks really good on her. And shows off her assets. 

Oliver hasn’t seen this bikini _for real_ yet, but she wants him to. Badly. Because despite her keen interest in lots of married sex with her new husband, she _does_ want to spend a little time on the beach. And if that time also involves teasing her husband with what he can look at but not touch (in public, anyway), well, so much the better.

After all, they flew almost 18 hours to get there, plus that stupid 2 hour layover in Panama City. She wants Oliver worked into a frenzy before he touches her again, because she knows from experience just how damn good it is when he’s been waiting for it.

Except that she’s too pissed at him to be thinking about having sex with him right now. 

“And anyway,” Felicity continues, trying not to let herself get distracted, “ _I’m_ not the one taking on work tasks while we’re _supposed_ to be sunbathing and having sex for a week and a half straight.”

Finally -- _finally_ \-- Oliver looks a little uncertain. Like maybe he’s _just now_ realizing how bad an idea it was to bring work on vacation. And not just _any_ vacation, but their freaking honeymoon. “No,” he starts, “wait, it’s nothing like that, Felicity. Just--”

“Just you taking off for a few hours while I lay around in the sun _by myself_ ,” she suggests, her tone dangerous. “On our _honeymoon_?”

His brow furrows. “Um…”

“Did you mention this to Diggle?” Felicity asks.

Oliver shakes his head, just the tiniest bit. “Not exactly.”

Felicity advances on him. “What does that mean?”

“He just… said there was an ARGUS target in Montevido when he heard we were vacationing in Uruguay.”

“Honeymooning,” she corrects, primly. “We are _honeymooning_ in Uruguay, except that you would rather drive three hours back to Montevido to _ogle_ some ARGUS target,” she continues, turning away from him to fully open the sliding door onto their private lanai, “than stay here with your _wife_.”

“Felicity--”

“No,” she argues, stepping out into the shaded patio stones, “I’ll entertain myself while you’re gone.” She turns back to him, and he halts in the doorway when she reaches for the hem of her coverup. “Maybe there will be some people around here for _me_ to ogle,” she suggests, easing the lightweight fabric over her head and then letting it dangle from one hand as she shakes her hair back into place. 

She’s never worn an actual string bikini before, held onto her body with bows and a prayer. But his reaction is totally worth it.

Oliver is staring at her, mouth slightly agape, and Felicity resists the urge to fist pump. She’s not great at playing the sexy bombshell, but she’s pretty sure _nerdy fist bumps_ are a surefire way to ruin the whole vibe.

“Felicity,” he breaths, “you look…” He shakes his head.

She rolls her eyes and turns toward the sparkling sand, and when she does, Oliver actually chokes. Her ass, she is pleased to note, looks fantastic in this bikini. Felicity is grinning outright, adding a little extra sway to her hips as she walks away from him.

Two steps.

That’s all it takes for him to catch her, one strong arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She arches, just a bit, pressing her ass against his thighs. “To lie on the beach. Get a little bit of a tan. Admire the view.” His grip on her tightens, a second arm snaking around her ribcage. Felicity squirms in his hold. “Shouldn’t you be leaving? Important hero things to investigate?”

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight when you’re wearing that bikini, you’re crazy,” he growls into her ear.

It’s undeniably hot, but it also really, really pisses her off. Because, yes, she wants him lusting after her. _Obviously_. But she wants him to _want_ to spend time with her on their honeymoon, and not just postpone his stupid, stupid recon trip so he can get laid first.

When she slaps his forearm lightly, he lets her go. She puts a little distance between them and turns back “Aren’t you going to Montevido?” she asks, her tone accusatory.

“Felicity,” he says, his hands pressed flat against his thighs, which she knows means he’s barely keeping himself from reaching for her. “I think maybe I can skip Montevido.”

“No,” she tells him, chin up, arms crossed beneath her breasts. The air outside is warm and she’s starting to sweat a little, even in the shade. “I mean, it must be important if you were willing to take time out of our honeymoon--”

“Felicity,” he says, all pretense gone, leaving just that honesty that always brings her to her knees, “you know there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, with you.”

It almost works. He almost has her forgetting why she’s mad. Forgetting he made _other plans_ for their honeymoon. Then she scoffs. Actually scoffs at him. “But duty calls, so you’d best get going. I mean, I should probably get used to this, right?” She turns her back on him once more, but not before she sees the flare of anger in his eyes.

She’s reaching for the fluffy beach towels in a basket on the floor when his thick fingers encircle her wrist, halting her retreat.

“I’m staying,” he announces, and he’s close enough that she can feel his hot breath on her shoulder.

“If it’s more important than our honeymoon, you should go,” she orders loudly.

He pulls her wrist to turn her back toward him, then drops his hold. “No!” he growls back, all irritation and impatience. It’s a good look for him. Like most things.

“Why not?” she challenges, and she can feel the heat in her cheeks -- anger and excitement and more than a little bit of arousal.

“Because,” he grits out, leaning even closer so he towers over her, “nothing is more important than you and you fucking _know_ that.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, both breathing hard.

And then they’re kissing. Angrily, greedily. Hands pulling and tugging and gripping.

Felicity remains just barely aware enough to remember that they’re on a patio fully visible to the sunbathers on the beach. His chest is a warm wall, flush against her, and she eases back just enough to say, “Inside.”

Oliver’s hands grip her ass tighter and he grinds his erection against her belly. “That’s the idea,” he says, then nips the column of her throat hard even as he chuckles. 

She would snap back at him if she could, but her brain takes a little vacation when the hot palm on her thigh urges her leg up, eases it around his hips. His other hand curls around the nape of her neck, tugging at the knot holding her bikini top up. His tongue is tracing the edge of the small triangles covering her breasts.

“Oliver,” she grumbles, her hands dipping into the back of his board shorts to squeeze his ass, to pull him harder against her. “I don’t need an audience.”

“I beg to differ,” he mutters, low and husky. “People should paint this body.” 

She shivers against him. He’s crazy, because if anyone’s body should be the object of everyone’s appreciative gaze, it’s the scarred skin and firm muscle beneath her hands. His ass, in particular, should be sculpted for the world to acknowledge as some sort of aesthetic ideal.

Oliver pulls hard on her bikini top, the string digging into her back as he only succeeds in tightening the knot. But when he lets it go with a huff of frustration, the fabric slips down to her waist anyway. His tongue is already on her nipple, and she arches into it, her fingernails scraping along his rib cage until he hisses against her. 

She manages to get both palms on his chest and shoves. Clearly, Oliver didn’t expect that because he stumbles back a few steps, into the doorway of their room. He gives her an irritated look, but she’s following him inside, reaching behind her back to undo the remaining knot in her bikini top, letting the scrap fall forgotten to the floor.

Oliver tugs his t-shirt off, his sunglasses already gone, and then grabs her waist. He pulls her across the threshold and then pushes her back against the sliding doors.

The glass is cool against her skin and she arches away instinctively, until just her shoulder blades and her ass are touching the surface.

“So fucking hot,” Oliver mutters against the skin of her abdomen, his warm lips and his stubble leaving trails of fire. Somehow he’s on his knees before her, his palm low on her belly urging her to lean back against the glass. It feels amazing against her heated flesh, and she gives a passing thought to whether beach-goers can see her.

Then Oliver looks up at her, panting a little, his mouth open and his eyes dark with lust, and she could give a shit about anything outside this room, anything other than this man. Her _husband_. 

Felicity can’t look away, and the moment lingers until he reaches his free hand up to her hip, pulling the string of her bikini bottoms so, so slowly that it makes her hips twitch toward him. She needs pressure, friction, _relief_.

A dirty smile steals across his face. “Impatient?”

She glares at him. “Frustrated,” she corrects. Because that’s true on a couple levels, and she won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him think he won. Even if she’s squirming, desperate for his fingers, for his mouth.

With a sharp tug, one side of her bikini bottoms comes untied, and Oliver pulls her hips to his face, his tongue finding her clit as her bathing suit falls down around one ankle. Her hands press flat against the glass, and she really, really hopes nobody can see her bare ass pressed into the sliding doors. 

Oliver’s hands are on her thighs, and then her leg is braced on his shoulder. She writhes against him, unable to stop herself, and then his fingers are gripping her ass to quell her frantic movements, and his tongue is doing -- oh, God -- really amazing things to her clit.

She knows she’s talking, and from the way he’s occasionally laughing against her, she’s probably chattering nonsense, but she doesn’t _care_. Because he knows her body so well, and she was already so worked up before he even touched her that he’s got her on the edge really quickly, her shoulder blades sliding against the slick glass doors as she moves against his mouth. Then he slips two fingers into her and -- _presses_ \-- and she’s coming, and she’s half-laughing, half-yelling, and she’s pretty sure she says Montevido at one point, so she guesses she’s still a little mad at him, but it’s hard to _stay_ mad when she feels so floaty, standing on shaky legs as the aftershocks keep her hips moving against him.

“C’mere,” Oliver says, and he grips her waist tightly as he eases her down. He’s sitting back on his heels, and she ends up on his lap, her knees against his hips.

She frowns when she realizes he’s still wearing his board shorts. “Off,” she orders, tugging at the string tie waistband with shaking fingers. Because she’s still coming down from her first orgasm and she already needs more.

“You’re impatient,” he says again. Smugly.

So she cups him through the fabric of his shorts and squeezes until he groans and presses his hips up, pumping into her grip. Felicity leans forward, licking a hot stripe along his collarbone, tasting his sweat. “Now who’s impatient?” she asks with a smirk.

He groans and tries to hold still, but he can’t keep stop moving any more than she can, and when he looks at her, his pupils are wide and dark and endless. 

Felicity crashes her lips into his and they are kissing desperately again, nipping and sucking until Oliver moans into her mouth, pressing eagerly into the palm of her hand. 

“Inside?” she asks, the amazing orgasm she just had taking enough of the edge off for her to be a little cocky about it. Because he should maybe work for it a little.

“Please,” Oliver says, his fingers pressing bruises into her hips as he holds her close. “Felicity, _please_.”

She wants to tease him some more, maybe suggest they can wait if he has more pressing, Arrow-y matters to attend to, but she can read the tension in his face, in the rough grip of his hands on her body. God, she loves how strong his hands are, how desperately he clutches her to him when she pushes him too far.

And then she’s moving, kneeling up to give him enough space to tug his shorts down. Which he does, kind of, but her breasts are in his face and he’s easily distracted. She can’t complain, since he’s got a pretty talented mouth.

Instead, Felicity helps with his bathing suit. They’re moving against each other, a little awkward, a little desperate, working the material down far enough to free his erection. She loses all interest in his clothing at that point; she wraps her hand around his cock instead, grinning at his desperate groans in response.

“You want me?” she breathes into his ear, her free arm banded around his upper back, holding him close. “You want to fuck your wife?”

He tugs hard on her nipple, then releases her, tipping his head back to look at her. “Always,” he moans. “Felicity.”

And she’s done teasing, done being angry, done with anything that doesn’t involve Oliver inside of her right now. She holds him still and slides home, letting her head drop back as she pants at the delicious fullness.

“Felicity,” he repeats, pulling out a bit and thrusting back up into her.

She straightens, her breasts pressing high against his chest, tipping her chin down to catch his mouth in a desperate kiss. Oliver’s hands are on her ass, urging her up and then back down as he lifts his hips into her. She latches onto his biceps and moves harder, grinding down on him until she can feel her arousal catch and start to build again.

He’s halfway there already, she can tell by the desperate way he’s thrusting into her, and she squeezes his arms. “Harder,” she orders against his mouth, trapping his bottom lip between her teeth.

“Yeah?” he asks, and then complies, his knees spreading for leverage. It’s just what she needs, and she leans back, changing the angle. She can feel her orgasm coming on. She just needs-- God, she needs--

Oliver shifts his grip, one hand circling around to support her spine as she tilts a little further back, her hair brushing against the small of her back as they move. Oliver’s other hand dips between their bodies. He’s imprecise, rubbing rough circles, and normally that wouldn’t work for her. Usually that would be too much. But the way he’s grunting, the desperation in his movements against her -- he’s out of control and there’s nothing that gets her off more quickly than that. 

Oliver presses another circle, then thrusts hard into her, and she’s coming. Felicity is vaguely aware that her head hits the glass door when she arches against him. She doesn’t even care, her pulse thundering in her ears even as Oliver roars against her, holding her against him as he jerks up into her, once, twice, three times.

She’s drifting along, laughing a little, and when she comes back to herself, they’re lying on the floor in a sweaty, blissful mess, limbs tangled together. Oliver’s board shorts are still in a wrinkly band around the tops of his thighs, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He tugs her closer, humming contentedly as he presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I like married sex,” he says, still breathing hard.

Felicity is all languidity, all endorphin-fueled giddiness, but she still says, “You like it enough to actually be on your honeymoon instead of taking off?”

Instantly, he’s moving -- rolling onto his side and pulling her flush against him, sweaty skin to sweaty skin. “I love you,” he tells her, his eyes serious, “and there is no universe in which I would ever want to ‘take off’ from our honeymoon. Or from you,” he adds, when she opens her mouth to protest. He leans in and kisses her, soft and slow. 

“Okay,” she grumbles, willing to maybe let it go. Probably. Since he _did_ just give her two pretty great orgasms and it’s barely ten in the morning.

“I’m sorry, Felicity,” he apologizes earnestly, his fingers easing through her hair, cradling the back of her head. “It was thoughtless of me to consider doing work on our honeymoon.”

She pouts at him, considering. “Well,” she says finally, “I think there’s _some_ work you could do that I wouldn’t mind.” She’s already grinning, and gives him a wink, just because she knows how much he loves it.

Oliver’s laughing, arms wrapped tight around her. “You’re a terrible winker,” he tells her, his voice suffused with affection and amusement. “Your whole face moves.”

“Oh, shut up,” she says, but she’s grinning. “You love it.”

“You’re right,” Oliver kisses the tip of her nose, then beams that crippling smile of his at her, “I love your face.”

She wonders if it’ll ever get old, this crazy butterfly feeling he causes sometimes when he looks at her like that. When he says things like that. “I love your face,” she answers. Then she tilts her head, pretending to consider her words. “I _guess_ your ass is pretty okay, too.”

END


End file.
